


Pheasant Shoot

by astridthecrafty



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-30 05:18:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5151734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astridthecrafty/pseuds/astridthecrafty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lord Creighton-Ward's slightly intoxicated musings after an annual get together ... potential prequel fic. marked as T to be safe due to mild alcohol reference</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pheasant Shoot

**Author's Note:**

> setting 2049, saturday 9nd october in the Thunderbirds universe, characters by Gerry Anderson, I hold no claim to them etc etc and so forth.

The second weekend of October had rolled around again for the now annual pheasant shoot on the Creighton-Ward's Highland Estate and a rather rosy cheeked Lord Creighton-Ward was glad his house guests had finally decided to retire. The rustic bread and Stilton served along side the 40 year old tawny port had not diminished the beverage's intoxicating properties. The day had been a great success with many business deals shaken on and a good sum collected for charity.

Despite being in Scotland the weather had been surprisingly pleasant for the time of year, instead of the usual mist of drizzle. At least the damned clouds of midges were gone by now.

The gamekeeper had assured him in his dulcet Scottish dialect that "thay burrdz urr heeooge an' faaht and hunners o' dem", which apparently translated as ready and numerous. His man had been correct and several braces worth had been brought to earth. Enough cartridges had been fired to make one deaf, several side bets had been won and lost, and overall the afternoon had been superb.

Lord Creighton-Ward had invited several of his wealthy friends. Among them one Jefferson Tracy. The man was an insightful genius and everything he touched seemed to turn to gold, and since his late wife's unfortunate passing he had sunk himself into the technology business.

"Mark my words," Tracy had exclaimed, "ten years time and a plane will make London to Sydney in 2 to 3 hours."

Pffft, a quarter of the time indeed. The current 10 hours for a commercial flight was the pinnacle according to all the experts, but that Tracy was one stubborn chap and Lord Creighton-Ward wasn't going to write off the claim just yet. If Tracy said it would happen you could be damned sure he would MAKE it happen.

He, along with his mother and boys had arrived yesterday afternoon in a menagerie of typically Yank clamour. A shooting trip was apparently good father/sons bonding time, but on first impressions he hadn't thought many of the children would be interested, and he'd been right. The oldest one had shown the only enthusiasm. After that the next in line was a ginger whose nose was constantly stuck in books. He must take that recessive gene from his Grandmother. She was one lady not to mess with. She might be mostly grey now, but the streaks of red still in there warned of the determined nature behind her diminutive form. She was the matriarchal shepherdess currently reining in those boys. Middle child seemed content to sit scribbling constantly with a notepad and pencil, and the 2 youngest were...well ... a tad unruly to say the least ... why do Americans insist on being so loud? The one with brown eyes and a halo of blond curls on his head (really, a boy should not be allowed to have hair so long) just had to flash an angelic looking smile to turn the female staff into blithering idiots, and the youngest seemed a bit clingy to his Grandmother. Yes, they had not long lost their mother but he hoped they were not going to mollycoddle the child. They had to learn to be strong and independent, like he was guiding his own Penelope to be.

He overheard whispered voices floating from the library. He could make out one young and one older. The soft yellow flickering from the flames of the fire shimmered on the open door frame and as he sneaked a look he could make out what looked like the two smallest Tracy boys cocooned in a tartan wool blanket with their Grandmother embracing them from in between.

The youngest child was stroking a pheasant tail feather thoughtfully.

"The bird is dead, isn't it, Grandma?"

"Yes Allie it is."

A heavy pause was answered with a sniff and a smaller wavering voice.

"It's never coming back is it?"

"No, sweetheart. No, its not."

A brief image flashed through his alcohol addled memory ... of the time his Grandfather passed and his battleaxe Governess sneering at him to stop snivelling.

Perhaps there was something to learn from these Americans and their newfangled nurturing ideals.

Perhaps ... perhaps he WOULD just go and check on his daughter before turning in for the night because ... well, just because...


End file.
